


Nothing I Don't Want

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Las Vegas, M/M, UKUS, secret santa gift, side characters here and there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, wildly wealthy head of a successful tech company, is in Las Vegas and needs a date. He hires a professional - supposedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hannaadi88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannaadi88/gifts).



> For the 2013 USUK Secret Santa exchange. Sorry this is only part 1, but I wanted to get something up for you with this pinch-hit, hanna_adi88. I'm still working on the rest and I anticipate maybe three or four parts at most? Anyway, I loved all your prompts but was excited to write this one. I hope you enjoy and feel free to make suggestions/comments/concrit. :)
> 
> Note: This will be a lighthearted type of fic; please don't expect realistic/dark depictions of prostitution angst. Also, un-beta-read.

Arthur was sitting stiffly on the sofa, reading the _Las Vegas Review-Journal_ 's business section mostly to ease his mind that he was not mentioned, when the expected knock came at his hotel room door.  
  
Arthur folded the paper. He laid it on a side table, then stood and pulled at the hem of his jacket to straighten it. He took a deep breath.  
  
 _Thank you for your consideration, Thomassen, but I already have a friend coming in tomorrow,_ he'd said last night.  
  
 _Also, I am gay_ , he'd said.  
  
A lie followed by an utter truth: it hadn't really been the way he'd meant to come out to his colleagues. In fact, he'd hardly meant to do so at all. But, well, it was past time he'd said it, if only to forestall the efforts of his associates -- Thomassen chief among them -- to introduce him to their unmarried sisters or cousins. Or, as had been the case yesterday, to find him a more Las Vegas sort of female companion.  
  
Regardless of Arthur's desire to keep his private life private, the milk was already spilt. Or, for a more casino-ish sort of idiom, the die had been cast.  
  
This was a case in which what happened in Vegas would most certainly not stay in Vegas. Thankfully the _Review-Journal_ didn't seem to care and its article about the GlobalTex convention was more concerned with the product on show and the prestigiousness of the companies showing. Back home in the UK, however, he was sure there was a sordid daily or two already picking apart his thirty-three years of life on this planet and saying they'd known it all along.  
  
For once he found it nice to be in America where he was mostly a nobody, just one more incredibly wealthy CEO amongst a bevy of high rollers.  
  
As soon as Arthur had escaped Thomassen and come back to his suite at the Encore the previous evening -- not completely sober, it must be said -- he'd turned off his professional e-mail with an "I will return shortly" message. And then he'd set about finding a suitable "friend" to uphold the untrue part of his admission.  
  
After a brief, arousing and ultimately fruitless search of the Internet, he'd searched out his hotel floor's dedicated valet Li Xiao Chun in a state of desperation and slight pissed-ness. He'd asked where he might find a discreet and convincingly posh escort. Um, male.  
  
"Ah-- Vegas isn't all about the breasts! I know a great guy. A real classy dude," Li had said and given him a phone number.  
  
Antonio had answered Arthur's voice-trembling (and only slightly drunken) call with great understanding. Unfortunately, he was in Tahiti with a client.  
  
"Let me refer you to my personal friend, a local," he'd said. "New to the business but very cute. College graduate." He'd texted Arthur some pictures and an e-mail address.  
  
And it was presumably this friend of a friend of Li Xiao Chun, College Graduate Al Jones, knocking at his door. Arthur opened it.  
  
It was Li Xiao Chun -- or not. "I'm Li's twin brother Shen," the day valet said. "This gentleman is authorized by you?"  
  
"Yes, thank you," Arthur said, looking at the floor. Poise and confidence were all well and good in business, but this was a terribly embarrassing hangover encounter and he wasn't yet ready to meet it head-on. A pair of only slightly scuffed shoes followed Arthur inside.  
  
Presumably friend-of-a-friend-of-Li-Al-Jones said "Hi! I'm Al. You must be Arthur."  
  
Arthur swallowed and risked a glance up, shoulder-high. His stomach gave a hangover flop. The most he could utter was, "Oh, dear. That suit will never do."  
  
"Hey, you are British, ha ha," the voice said brightly, and then with a bit of a pout in it, continued. "I thought it was nice enough."  
  
Arthur swallowed again and looked up, at a bad suit fitted to a nice body, tall, slender and athletic. And up went his gaze, into a yes, attractive face, more attractive than his photo for being real and ... real. It was wearing glasses, and was screwed into a wince.  
  
"Pardon," Arthur said at the same time Al said "Geeze, sorry. I'm not supposed to be defensive."  
  
"Shall we start over?" Arthur suggested, and Al said, "Oh, good, please."  
  
There was a moment filled with stiff bodies and even stiffer silence. Then Al stuck out a hand. "Hi! You must be Arthur. I'm Al Jones, and I'm here to do whatever I can to make you happy."  
  
Arthur felt a flush creep up his neck. Based on some of the pictures he'd seen on rentboy websites, someone who looked like Al could make him very happy indeed. Arthur's cheeks grew ten degrees hotter than normal and probably redder. That was not what he'd commissioned Al for. He did shake Al's hand. He quickly discovered that he liked Al's hand. It was warm, dry and firm. And very long-fingered.  
  
"So your e-mail said. I am Arthur Kirkland," he said, giving his full name, for there was no use pretending to be anyone else.  
  
He'd momentarily forgotten his anonymity in the States. "Hah, like the home stores! My brother worked at a Kirkland's in high school. You own those?"  
  
"No, I am in the technology business."  
  
"Makes sense. This being GlobalTex time of year and all. Oh yeah! I have to say up front that prostitution is not legal in ClarkCounty, but anything I do of my own free will in my personal time is my own business."  
  
Arthur took a step back at Al's grinning leer. "Yes. Your e-mail said that, also."  
  
"Oh. Okay." Al stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged, making his horrible suit bunch up at the waist. "Tony told me I have to be more smooth about saying that, like there's a certain facial expression and everything, but I never did understand what the heck he was talking about."  
  
Obviously, Arthur thought. "Ah. Well, I've never hired an ... escort, so I wouldn't know the difference," he said with what was probably a very bad imitation of a friendly smile.  
  
But Al grinned and took his hands out of his pockets, standing straighter in a show of relief. "That's great! So we can pretend I did it right?"  
  
Arthur clenched his jaw against its attempt to gape. Could Al possibly be as disingenuous as he appeared? He was like Arthur's wet dream of a Clean-Cut American Boy. Of course, that could be just what he was getting because that was what he was paying for. "Er," he said.  
  
"Ha ha," Al laughed. "So you're cute, you're gonna forgive me, and this is a great room. I've never been this high up in the Encore before. Look at that TV, whoa!"  
  
Al wandered off a few steps and Arthur fanned his face to cool it from the shock of being called "cute" and "forgiving," two words he'd never heard applied to himself. He only briefly checked out Al's arse before trying to appreciate whatever it was Al found wonderful about the suite. He supposed it was well enough. Spacious, mountain view. Lots of windows, and Arthur was tempted to draw down the electronic shades but had figured the light would serve as hangover punishment for his questionable decisions of the previous evening. Thus the late-morning sunlight filled Arthur's suite with all its desert power, and even in that unforgiving illumination the room was decently appointed. Not shabby, no burn holes in the upholstery. Serviceable.  
  
Al was running his long fingers (well-trimmed nails, at least) over the top of one of the divans. "So. Speaking of e-mails, your message said you wanted a date for a party, though now I've seen ya I can't imagine how you couldn't get a date, with your looks and obvious bucks. Or pounds, or whatever you call 'em in England. Euros?"  
  
"No, pounds." Arthur nearly choked on the utter silliness of it all. This was certainly not what he'd imagined from a highly paid escort. What would he have gotten from Antonio Carriedo? Probably someone suave and blase, utterly professional about the job and its swift execution.  
  
Still, Arthur stiffened his backbone and schooled his nerves. He was a monster of the business world! His frowns were so frightening, the people in his offices scurried to do his every bidding. He dealt daily with cutthroat executives who had ulterior motives and the money to back them up: surely he could handle a day with a fresh-faced, blue-eyed and blond-haired young man with a penchant for catching Arthur off guard. Not in the least by managing to be utterly sexy in the unschooled way he bounced about the room with gleaming eyes, touching things.  
  
"How about we have a drink and talk?" Arthur put forth. "Scotch? Wine?"  
  
Al turned. The light flashed against his spectacles, rendering his eyes invisible behind them. "Um, it's a little. Um, I mean, okay, great!" His grin this time was white-toothed but suspiciously half-hearted.  
  
Arthur sighed. "Just tell me what you were going to say."  
  
Morning sunlight was unforgiving to more than the hung-over, and thus Arthur was treated to the sight of Al's cheeks blooming with pink.  
  
"I was going to say. It's a little early, but if you'd like a drink I should do what you want. You're the client, after all."  
  
Judging the judge, eh? Arthur actually chuckled. He was British: he could drink this pup under the table. "Well, it was more social lubricant than pharmaceutical necessity, so we can wait. Why don't we sit down, however. Pretend to get to know each other enough to fool my colleagues."  
  
"Well, I'm not much of a fooler, but I'll give it my best shot," Al said and followed Arthur to the couch. He also said "heh, lubricant" under his breath.  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes, was caught doing it, and then reminded himself that he didn't care. Whether Al truly liked him or not was a non-issue, since he was being paid to keep Arthur "happy," as it were. He would be off on his own again tomorrow, besides -- Arthur had paid for an overnight booking, but only because he didn't know how long the conference dinner would last. Of course.  
  
And well! If Al were to fool anyone as a particular friend, he'd best know some of Arthur's history. Thus Arthur began a recitation of his curriculum vitae: London native; Oxford for uni; ability to find tech-savvy people to help him create his vision; his company and position and his purpose for his being here. The conference didn't technically start until the following day, but the dinner tonight was a warmup before the chaos of exhibiting new products and whatnot began.  
  
At one point Al exhibited a very stiff grin that looked to be hiding a yawn. Arthur invited him to ask questions.  
  
"So what do you do for fun? What are the gay dance bars in London like?" They were crowded. "What movies do you like to see?" Arthur rarely went to watch films. "How many times have you been to America?" Several times, mostly to either the East or West coasts. "What other countries have you visited?" Several, for business, of course. "But what do you _do_?"  
  
Arthur began to realize how stodgy he surely appeared: He didn't do much of anything anymore. He went home, worked, watched a little telly. His housekeeper Jacinta cooked him curry and took the rest home to her family.  
  
Whether he needed to be liked or not, he began to find in Al's wide-eyed gaze that he wanted to be seen as something more than stodgy. Someone cute and forgiving.  
  
Al's own life story was shorter but more colorfully rendered: turned out he was a Boston native descended from revolutionaries, had a twin brother, was a wrestler in high school (perfect sport for a gay teenager, right? he said), and had come to SinCity to get his bachelor of science in maths at UNLV. He wanted to do graduate studies in Paris.  
  
"France?" Arthur had replied in a strained voice, unable to restrain a lip-curl.  
  
"What?" Al laughed, leaning forward to peer at Arthur over the rims of his glasses. His eyes were dark blue and serious. "You Brits still don't like the French?"  
  
"Of course not. We're very good ... friends," Arthur lied in a flat voice, sure a silly young man, American at that, would be unable to discern the distinction between his tone and his words.  
  
"Oooohkay. So while you're being _honest_ ," Al said with particular emphasis, "why don't you tell me what's wrong with my suit?"  
  
"Ah. Well, This is a very high-end dinner, you see," Arthur said, crossing his arms and eyeing the suit in question to hide his embarrassment at being caught in the untruth. He had better to give back, however. "As you know, I told my colleagues that I had a particular friend coming into town, but any particular friend of mine would be dressed more in line with someone of my stature."  
  
"Hoshit, you British guys are just as pretentious as I've heard," Al whistled.  
  
"What!"  
  
Al just laughed aloud at Arthur's sputter. "I'm joking! It's just, clients don't usually care what I'm wearing as long as it's clean."  
  
Arthur felt his face go red again: he really would have to close those window shades to keep his dignity. He hadn't thought this escort thing through very well, had he? He should have been looking for an actor more than an available and .. very attractive young man whose usual job was to provide sex on his own free time. And other related things, Arthur thought, remembering some of the pictures on those websites. Men in leather straps, men in shibari, men doing things to themselves. Did Al have a website like that somewhere? Did Arthur really want to pretend Al was a willing date, or would he rather see him bending over with his fingers in his own arsehole?  
  
He didn't want to think further about the answer to that. Al spoke again before he could do so.  
  
"Hey! I can't pretend to be your particular friend if I'm not allowed to joke with you, right?"  
  
"I suppose," Arthur said, arms still crossed. He wanted to glare or pout, but that would not further the business at hand.   "So if someone were to purchase you a proper ensemble suitable for a luxury conference and networking dinner, and needed it quickly, where might they take you?"  
  
Al _hmm_ ed. "There's a Dolce & Gabbana store down the Strip at the Aria."  
  
"Very well," Arthur said, standing and straightening has jacket.  
  
Al gaped up at him. "What the hell? Am I like Pretty Woman or something? All right, Richard Gere."  
  
"What?"  
"I know that if I'm old enough to remember that movie, then you totally are."  
  
Arthur let his jaw drop just a little. Was he being called old? "Don't be a twit. I'm serious."  
  
"Seriously, then. Buy me clothes and show me off! It's an awesome plan."  
  
Al's eyes were a smiling light blue and his grin was wide with genuine amusement -- and Arthur was British; he could tell the difference.  
  
 _His eyes change color with his mood. Remarkable._ Arthur waved his palm in an _up_ gesture. "Then shall we go, Julia?"  
  
"I knew you were a cool guy, Arthur," Al said and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. At even such a brief touch Arthur was reminded of Al's job, and how else he might touch were Arthur to ask him.  
  
Arthur turned away to hide the self-conscious twist of his lips. "Er. Can you tell me what 'Al' is short for?"  
  
"Urgh. It's Alfred."  
  
Arthur tasted the name in his thoughts. "Alfred is a fine name. May I call you that?"  
  
He glanced up to see Al's eyes darkened only slightly. His mouth opened, then shut. "If it will make you happy, sure."  
  
"It would," Arthur said.

***  
  
END of Part 1

Comments, concrit, suggestions all appreciated!  Thank you for reading. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clothes-purchasing, and a little lust and verbal sparring. Basically how I see UKUS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Sorry so late, but it's been a busy couple of weeks. I anticipate a couple more parts. I hope you continue to enjoy, hannaadi88! Still un-beta-read.

  
For all his vaunted nerve, Arthur was tense-shouldered and silent as they left the sanctuary of his room for the unfiltered daylight of the world outside. The room was where he'd semi-drunkenly cooked up the idea. The room was where he'd done his "research," such as it was. The room was where he could be discreetly alone with a stranger he'd hired on the word of someone he barely knew through someone he knew not at all. It all seemed so ... sordid, in the world outside.  
  
Though "sordid" wasn't the exact word Arthur would use to describe Alfred. He risked a glance at him, standing close by his side in the elevator. Alfred had left his jacket in the room and rolled up his sleeves. He was rocking on his heels with his hands jammed in his pockets.  
  
 _Flaky_ might do, Arthur thought. Ebullient, perhaps. He seemed bold enough to give it a go, at least. If they could power through the day on sheer force of will, nobody would have to know that he'd hired Alfred at all.  
  
Luckily the trip to the shop was as uneventful as Arthur could have wanted. This was Las Vegas, not London or even Los Angeles, and nobody from the limo driver to the few tourists gawking at the exclusive shops paid them the slightest bit of attention.  
  
In the company of Alfred the salespeople in the men's Dolce  & Gabbana store did instantly ping his orientation and greeted them both with wide, gay smiles - in both senses of the word. Before Arthur could obliquely explain to them the challenge he faced, Alfred hooked a finger over his shoulder at him.  
  
"The blond and British sugar daddy here wants me dressed for a nice business dinner at the Bellagio."  
  
A salesman with white, spiky hair nodded and took Alfred by the arm. "Yeah. Across the pond they're fussy about their accessories, honey."  
  
Arthur grew so stiff he might have cracked had not the store manager, a slight Asian man who introduced himself as Honda, offered to let him choose from amongst a selection of fine Japanese teas for refreshment. Arthur allowed himself to be led to a comfortable chair next to a table with a tetsubin and a hot water machine, which Honda fired up.  
  
Alfred was placed in front of a mirror and the salesman and his compatriot, a pretty and rather muscular young lady with long hair in a sleek ponytail and a forceful manner, eyed Alfred's bottom. The woman narrowed her eyes and patted her lips.  
  
"Get him some boxers," she ordered, to which the man said "word." Arthur caught Alfred's crooked grin in the mirror, the cheeky twat, and Arthur scowled lest he pinken again; he hadn't even noticed Alfred was going commando. Or had he? Regardless, a flurry of activity rescued his dignity as the pair brought suits for their approval and nodded and argued and dragged Alfred back and forth from dressing room to the show room. The tea was very good -- personal collection, Honda said -- and the whole was handled so matter-of-factly and without judgment that bit by bit Arthur's muscles unhitched and he remembered how to breathe.  
  
They really were unshockable here, weren't they? He began to feel he could almost be what he was: a wealthy gay executive, providing attractive clothing for a good-looking young man.  
  
The salespeople definitely noticed Arthur's wide-eyed and rather drooly look at Alfred in a tight-fitting, deep navy suit, and laughingly called for the tailor to make the necessary slight adjustments. As the tailor knelt in front of Alfred and fussed with the waist and crotch of the (very slim) trousers, Arthur felt compelled to make more of a contribution than goggling at an arse he had no intention of touching.  
  
"I'll grant, Alfred--" Arthur really did like the name, like a king of old -- "the style -- er -- fits you well. But do you think it too modern for a business dinner?"  
  
"Trust me," interjected the spiky-haired salesman. "This'll be an accessory everyone will love."  
  
Alfred laughed at being poked and prodded and objectified like he'd been born to it. "We'll look good together."  
  
"Yeah, you will." The woman beamed at Alfred's arse, presumably because it was now properly outfitted. "His suit is fantastic, by the way." They all turned to eye Arthur's slate pin-stripe with sighing approval and Arthur grew warm in a way that he was used to, because of course it was true.  
  
"Right?" Alfred laughed. "My man Arthur here is pretty awesome."  
  
"Totally."  
  
"You're such a cute couple," the woman said and picked imaginary lint off Alfred's trousers. "But your boyfriend's gonna bake in this heat. It's supposed to hit a hundred today. Want us to find you some casual wear?"  
  
Beastly heat indeed, but Arthur froze for a moment as if he'd been thrust willy-nilly into the Arctic. He'd gone from sugar daddy to boyfriend so quickly he almost protested out of habit that they weren't a couple. But wasn't that what he wanted them to appear? He sipped his tea to cover his discomfiture at this sign of success.  
  
When he looked up into the chilly silence he saw them all watching him with raised eyebrows, and Arthur caught Alfred's reflected gaze once more. Alfred bit his lip and looked down at his feet. Arthur melted a little. They'd called him _cute_ again. _Americans._  
  
"Very well," Arthur said, and pushed himself out of the chair. "Please find me -- him-- _us_ \-- something suitable for ... for sightseeing in the desert."  
  
"Sightseeing?" Alfred said, losing the unsure-ingenue expression in favor of a quirked eyebrow.  
  
"Find a pool, is all I'm sayin'," the white-haired man said, shuddering so hard the tips of his hair fluttered. "A clothing-optional one."  
  
Again an outbreak of clothes-grabbing and shepherding back and forth ensued to smooth the way: concealment through consumption, something Arthur could understand. As Alfred laughed and joked through it all, Arthur also began to understand that Alfred really was as silly and carefree as he appeared. Not all of it could be an act to gain his money: Alfred already had that, and it was rather refreshing to admit that up front and have it out of the way.  
  
Hiring an escort may have been an experience out of Arthur's previous purview, but he began to see its further advantages. Business transactions were something he understood. Relationships were not.  
  
Arthur's past liaisons had been discreet and brief and often spoiled by the fear of motive. It was both gallingly egotistical and confidence-shattering to feel unsure if one's dates liked him for himself or for what he could give them.  
  
Here all that worry had been swept away. Arthur took a few quiet moments in the dressing room to button the admittedly comfortable and stylish shirt they'd chosen for him, and to put the finishing touches on his adjusted worldview. He could be seen for a while as ... not alone, seen by the rest of the world as someone with someone, not just the eternally eligible bachelor the press back home so loved to examine.  
  
And when it was all over, there would be no recriminations, no regrets. Very businesslike.  
  
A sudden spate of angry, mixed Japanese and English assailed Arthur's ears from somewhere in the back of the store. Apparently a large, heavy box had been delivered and was blocking the fire exit. He poked his head out of the dressing room and was treated to the sight of Alfred, clothed in only the aforementioned boxers, traipsing back to muscle the box out of the way.  
  
"I could have done that, if you'd given me a chance," the woman protested.  
  
"Sorry, Liz. Don't kick my ass," Alfred said, brushing dust from his bare skin. Oodles of bare skin. "I just wanted to be helpful."  
  
Honda appeared from nowhere to block Arthur's fascinated gaze. "I am mortified that a valued customer should have to be put to work in my store. I would like to offer you a substantial discount on what you are wearing."  
  
Arthur murmured acceptance, though he hardly needed to: the total effect on his wallet was negligible. Mostly his adjusted worldview was trying not to incorporate the vision of Alfred in his underwear, bending and flexing and ripplingly slender ... ing and generally being many things Arthur did not want to find alluring. To think he'd always fancied himself game for dark, Continental types.  
  
Well, ever had it been so, that Arthur didn't know what lit his fires until he was faced with the match.  
  
With the bill paid and their suits off to be pressed and delivered to Arthur's hotel, they stood outside waiting for the limo, wearing ridiculously fashionable, and in Alfred's case especially, clinging long-sleeved shirts of light materials. And Arthur was once again left alone with his purchase, the one he couldn't pack off until needed.  
  
"So." Alfred leaned his head back and took a sip from his bottle of (ridiculously fashionable) water. In the sun the bottle sparkled and his fair hair gleamed. When he smiled his teeth were like some sort of advertisement for toothpaste. "Thank you! The clothes will help with my future career, ha ha. All of 'em."  
  
"All the clothes or the all the careers?" Arthur sniffed.  
  
"Both. Now I really have to earn my keep. What next?"  
  
Arthur straightened his posture, as if trying to pitch good, old English snobbery and worldly acumen against college-boy athleticism. He actually let himself say _hmph._ "As your employer it was my duty to see you properly outfitted for the job."  
  
Alfred only snorted. "No, as my _client_ , you did a nice thing. Seems you have a soft heart, Arthur."  
  
"Rubbish." Arthur turned away and sipped his water. "I expect you to do a bang-up job. It will be a wearying evening, I'm sure," Arthur sighed, thinking about the hours he'd have to field questions, endure the ribbing and innuendo from his colleagues, and so on and on. All while making sure Alfred didn't call him "sugar daddy."  
  
"Nah. All I have to do is convince your buddies that I find you fascinating, right?"  
  
"What?" Arthur turned so quickly to glare that he dribbled water down his chin and onto his new shirt.  
  
Alfred laughed and wiped the water from Arthur's chin, his (long) soft fingers more an unconscious caress than mere cleansing. "Am I crossing the line? I've been told I do that. Heck, I was just kidding! It's a party. It'll be fun. You're great, Arthur. So what about this sightseeing?"  
  
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Well. If you had an employer who wanted to do whatever it is people do in this city, what would be your plan?"  
  
"Well, _Arthur-my-client_ , that would probably involve following our clothes back to your hotel room."  
  
Continually, without fail, Alfred threw him off-kilter, just when he thought he'd the upper hand. He wasn't sure he was unhappy about it. Still, he decided he could throw back. "Ah. And what would you possibly do there?"  
  
Arthur couldn't be sure, but he thought Alfred's eyes shifted from a light and laughing to a more sultry shade of blue. "Well, I'm not good so much with the whips-n-leather stuff you uptight business types seem to like, but I do a pretty great shower massage."  
  
Well, that bolt of lightning went straight from Arthur's ears to his belly and thence to his cock. He drank more water to forestall a flush. "Oh, is that all? I'm disappointed in you, Alfred."  
  
Alfred actually frowned for a moment and took a step back. "Hey. Know your weaknesses, right?"  
  
Arthur was learning some new ones of his own: he felt his chest squeeze tight at landing such a cheap shot. "Just kidding, as you say."  
  
Alfred peered at him and behind his glasses his eyes did that oddly beguiling lightening thing again. He grinned and poked Arthur lightly in the shoulder. "Good one, Arthur."  
  
"But if I may give you business advice, you should sell your strengths better. The world is a terribly competitive place."  
  
Alfred leaned in closer, close enough that Arthur could feel his breath on his face. His finger, still pressed into Arthur's shoulder, wriggled in a suggestive manner. "Ha ha! Well, I'll just say, then, I'll do anything you want. Except I don't have to do anything I don't want. How's that?"  
  
For all his stodginess, Arthur had a sexually creative brain that could contemplate a great many things in a very short space of time. Thankfully it was only a matter of moments before the limousine pulled up and Alfred pulled away.  
  
"Better." Arthur cleared his throat and capped his water. "But all I want is for you accompany me to dinner, and before that, to show me around. Have you devised a plan to keep me happy?"  
  
"Riiiight. And yep, I know a fun place. It's a little out of the way, but there's an English pub nearby where we can have lunch. Of the pharmaceutical necessity kind as well as the food kind. A real English pub."  
  
Arthur was secretly impressed that Alfred had remembered their conversation from earlier. Of course, he would never admit it aloud. "I'll be the judge of that," he said, and got into the car.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and concrit are welcome and loved!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little sightseeing, a little booze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, thanks for waiting! This is the "getting from here to there" and "getting to know you" chapter and I hope it's not too boring. It's a little rushed and I'd have liked to have written a little further into the evening, but I'm starting a new job tomorrow and wanted to get this out. Hope you enjoy!

Once seated Alfred _plink-plink_ ed for a few moments on his smartphone and gave an address to the driver, who chuckled and said "Classic, man," before closing the window and pulling away.  
  
"Classic?" Arthur said. _Anything you want._ Did he want classic? The pub sounded good, anyway, because the water was doing nothing to quell the restless warmth that rose and ebbed within him, somewhat in time with Alfred's smiles and Arthur's perception of their genuineness.  
  
"Super-classic." Alfred stowed his phone and sank into the cushions opposite, stretching and lounging until his (still slightly scuffed) shoes brushed the seat-bottom on either side of Arthur's crossed legs. He clasped his hands low on his belly and shot Arthur a not-quite-leer. "Nice car, by the way."  
  
"Alas, it is not mine," Arthur said faintly.  
  
"Ha ha!" There was a brief flash of white teeth and thus another spike in Arthur's body temperature. He drank some of his useless water. What a stupid and contrary creature he was! He'd paid to be in the company of someone attractive, and got his shorts in a twist when he found himself too attracted.  
  
Basic physical appeal wouldn't have been a problem; Arthur often found people good-looking. Rare and unfortunate were that his emotions wanted to weigh in on the issue. That when he needed coolness and control the most, he should be all smitten and noodly at receiving someone's stimulating attention.  
  
Perhaps that was a big part of it: he was unused to being in a car with someone whose attention was focused on him, not on one's phone messages. The thought made Arthur realize that he hadn't looked at his own phone in hours. Probably some kind of personal record, that. He dug it out and keyed it on with no small amount of trepidation for someone who made his living off electronic communications.  
  
His fears were well-justified; a slew of panicked texts and e-mail notifications screamed at him from the screen.  
  
"Bollocks," he said.  
  
"You're not ruining the surprise, are you?"  
  
"No. Work," Arthur said, scanning the messages only briefly. He tapped out a general calming message, then sent his phone back to sleep. "I'll have to stop by the convention center before long. Just to arrange my employees back into a semblance of order."  
  
"They blowin' up your phone?"  
  
Arthur glanced up and barely resisted smiling. "That was actually an apt, if colorful, description. Yes, my phone was blown up. With minutiae."  
  
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "So you're a micro-manager, huh?"  
  
On the grounds of business, Arthur felt more able to defend the hit to his image. "I hire very capable people. But perhaps I have a very ... close management style."  
  
"Okay. A hands-on kind of guy, then." Alfred waggled his eyebrows.  
  
Arthur felt a laugh bubble up out of his mire of disquiet. "Now that was merely innuendo. You're full of them, aren't you?"  
  
Alfred glanced out the window too late to hide the upturn of his lips. "Your mind's in the gutter, Arthur."  
  
"Rubbish," Arthur said. "You're simply very cheeky."  
  
"What does that even mean? Oh, we're here."  
  
The car was gliding into a parking lot. At first their destination looked like much of this city outside the Strip -- a quiet shopping center, its white buildings with red-clay-tiled roofs surrounded by drooping palms and dust. Then he saw the strange piano sculpture on one of the buildings and the gold block letters: _LIBERACE_ _MUSEUM_ _._  
  
Arthur couldn't help letting a snort escape. "Liberace? This is the surprise? You must be joking."  
  
"What?" Alfred retracted his legs and sat up straight as any adult. "It's awesome. Classic."  
  
"The Las Vegas version of "classic," you mean." Even for a gay man, Arthur felt that flamboyance could reach certain levels of ridiculousness. He had no real wish to witness it first-hand. "Candelabras and costumes, I gather? Absurd."  
  
"And _cars._ "  
  
And there, a jolt right to Arthur's "Y" chromosome. He peered more closely out the tinted window. "Oh? What kind of cars?"  
  
Alfred assumed an airy tone. "Oh, some Rolls. Some roadsters, I think. A custom Bradley GT."  
  
"What year?"  
  
Alfred beamed. "Gotcha, didn't I? I don't remember. Let's go in and find out."  
  
"You're more like a professional by the minute."  
  
"You're good practice, Arthur," Alfred murmured.  
  
The way Alfred continually said his name was as intimate and unsettling as his other mannerisms, yet it was another thing Arthur couldn't say he was unhappy about.  
  
Perhaps their destination was ironic justice, anyway. He had much in common with Liberace this day: an ego issue and a young man by his side for financial reasons.  
  
At least the inside of the alleged museum was a cool and quiet respite from the heat. Arthur's disinterest in the clothing was palpable enough that they breezed through the room full of outlandish costumes. They lingered briefly before collections of jewelry -- Arthur had a passing British appreciation for big, gleaming rocks stored behind glass -- and headed around to see the cars.  
  
Those were worth Arthur's time. The museum's namesake and creator had been a lover of cars, something with which Arthur could identify; as a boy an interest in all things motor had risen in him even before hormones had. There were Rolls-Royces, yes, and a kit-car covered in tiny mirrors like a rolling, car-shaped disco ball. The Bradley proved to be a '72 and was very sleek and shiny, covered as it was in paint flecked with real gold, though Arthur was more impressed by a '57 English taxicab. It boasted a working meter that registered pounds, shilling and pence.  
  
The more Arthur exclaimed aloud over the cars the more Alfred grinned and hovered over him, and thus the more heated and weak-kneed Arthur grew. When he found himself leaning into Alfred's hand on his elbow, he drew away and declared that it was time to find the so-called pub.  
  
The Crown and Anchor was practically across the street; they were hardly piled in the car before it was time to climb back out. It also boasted more neon than any pub Arthur had seen in quite a while. Not that he really went to pubs much anymore; as a youth at university he'd frequented them for ale and quick food, but that had been years ago. Still, Alfred need never know that Arthur's expertise was outdated.  
  
Inside smelled like cigarette smoke and beer and was noisy with footballers gathered around some large screens showing sport at one end -- authentic enough. But Arthur had to raise his eyebrows when he spotted the waitress, who was wearing a tiny plaid skirt and had her blouse knotted above her bare stomach.  
  
Alfred shrugged and laughed. "Las Vegas."  
  
They sat at a table that was only slightly sticky (also authentic) and soon Arthur had a cold pint and the world was a much better place for it.  
  
Still he proclaimed, after he took a few gulps, that "It's not exactly like we get at home. A bit weaker."  
  
"Aren't you British people fussy?" Alfred said. At Arthur's look he adjusted his glasses. "Joking. So how am I doing with this sightseeing thing?"  
  
"Better now," Arthur said, wiping some froth from his lip. Alfred held out a napkin.  
  
"You liked the museum okay. At least it seemed like you did. I picked it because ... well, anyone can see a fancy ol' casino. You don't seem like the casino type, anyway."  
  
"But I'm the Liberace type?"  
  
"I can't believe you weren't impressed with his Bicentennial hot-pants. Those were sexy." With that pronouncement, Alfred very definitely leered.  
  
"Very short and ... patriotic, if you're American. Which I am not." Arthur downed the last of his pint; already the glass was the tiniest bit fuzzy around the edges, or perhaps that was just the smear of the foam-dregs? Either way, he signaled for another.  
  
"Hard to believe he was totally in the closet, right? You'd better drink some water between beers -- dehydration'll get ya hard out here."  
  
Arthur snorted. "And here I'd just pointed out that I was not American. I can handle more beer than you can dream of."  
  
"I can dream of a lot. I did go to college here, you know," Alfred said, though he'd barely touched his own beer and was scanning the menu for food.  
  
"It was a different time," Arthur said, harkening back to Alfred's first statement. He contemplated ordering the bangers himself, but decided he wasn't hungry enough. "Surround yourself with enough money and women, and people believed whatever you said. I'll have the Ploughman's lunch, please," he told the waitress.  
  
"Burger for me. Medium. With fries. Chips, yeah! Thank you," Alfred said, closing his menu and handing it over. "Not like today. I'll never have that kind of moolah, so I've never bothered being anyone other than who I am."  
  
"And so here you are?"  
  
"Here I am. Having fun with you."  
  
"Is it fun?" Arthur asked, and then cursed his beer-loosened tongue for sounding so needy. He was the worldly one, the man with the money. The client.  
  
But he needn't have worried: Alfred's eyes were very blue, his smile easy. "Not everyone is as cute and nice as you, Arthur. Though I am picky about who I ... associate with."  
  
Arthur flushed, but emboldened by the alcohol, found he could face Alfred despite it. Somehow he even believed it, in that moment -- that he was himself a desirable companion. He noted the contemplative tilt of Alfred's head, the way his long fingers caressed the condensation on his pint glass.  
  
"You seem to have little ambition for someone who charges as much for your time as you do."  
  
"Ha! I wonder sometimes if I'm cut out for the job, you know? And ugh, I shouldn't have said that." Alfred frowned at his beer. The sunlight from between the curtains burnished his cheeks an adorable pink.  
  
Arthur somewhat privately agreed with Alfred's doubts. He'd gone into this expecting a pure professional who'd do the job and get on with things, but instead had gotten someone he felt a more ... brotherly or mentor-ly rapport with. Though, admittedly, there was nothing fraternal about how he watched Alfred's fingers, or thought about them in relation to himself. Not to mention the rest of Alfred's body ...  
  
Arthur took another gulp of beer to cover his thoughts. He coughed. "You must be a true lightweight, for you've hardly drunk at all."  
  
"Hah. Well, if we're sharing life advice, I still say you should really have some water. I was in a world of hurt when I first moved out here. Before I learned."  
  
Arthur thought he might have pouted like any child. "I'm in charge from here on out. And I say I'm fine."  
  
"You're the client!" Alfred slapped his palms on the table, rattling Arthur's near-empty second pint in his exuberance. "So tell me who I'm going to meet tonight."  
  
"Good idea," Arthur said. A planning lunch was something he could get behind. While they drank Arthur talked about the expected attendees: There was Thomassen, blond, Norwegian and acerbic, head of a sister company that worked in tandem with Arthur's organization. Arthur had known him for years and was relaxed enough to admit his bombshell to him of the previous evening, the one that had necessitated this whole mess.  
  
The Globaltex organization team consisted of two Italian brothers and their board of directors. There would also be Bonnefoy, a French friend-slash-rival. ("Ah," Alfred interjected at that.) There were more people, of course, some important and some not and many would be in attendance whom Arthur did not know.  
  
When their food arrived Arthur only popped a pickled onion in his mouth and nibbled at his cheese, eschewing his bread in favor of the yeasty goodness of beer. Ale. Stuff. It really was very weak here.  
  
At one point he excused himself to use the loo and found as he stood that his legs had gone a bit wobbly. Perhaps he'd drink the next one a little more slowly? He hid his unsteadiness as best he could and headed off to the men's. On the way he was distracted by a match on one of the tellys.  
  
"AC Milan versus Olympiacos? Is this a live broadcast?" he asked a man standing next to him. The man was tall and wearing a Hawthorn Hawks shirt. He sported a bandage on his nose.  
  
"Oy, mate! Yeah, live in New York. Exhibition match."  
  
"Right," Arthur said, as all his pubgoing of the distant past came back to him in a sudden nostalgic rush. "Cock!" he shouted at the screen, when one of Milan's direct free-kicks went into their own goal.  
  
"They're shit at the back, too," the man said. "You from here?"  
  
"No, just visiting," Arthur told him, watching the screen.  
  
"Welcome to Las Vegas. Oh, Christ, no," the man said as the referee made an incomprehensible call.  
  
The shift to an advert prompted Arthur's attention from the game. Once he finally found the restroom he did his business and washed his hands and since he was alone, he took a few moments to examine himself in the mirror. He was well enough, he supposed. His hair was a little mussed (there, some water to set it right. Water. Pah! Was for washing, not for drinking). He splashed his face, which was pink from even the scant desert sunlight it had received. Green eyes: check. Not bloodshot at all. Eyebrows: as bushy as ever, check.  
  
The door opened and he backed away from his own reflection so quickly that he stumbled. The interloper was Alfred, who caught Arthur with a pair of hands on his shoulders.  
  
"Ha ha! Are you all right?"  
  
"Fine, fine," Arthur mumbled, except something was odd, because he didn't tear himself out of Alfred's grip. Amazing, how Alfred's eyes had darkened, even in the restroom's bright light. He looked almost concerned.  
  
"Okay," Alfred said, and before Arthur could pull away, he leaned forward (and a little down) and pressed their lips together.  
  
The kiss was brief -- more like a peck -- and ... and ... almost brotherly. Almost. So much for hoping his attraction wouldn't translate to physical chemistry: the softness of Alfred's lips made Arthur's head buzz and his toes curl inside his shoes. The rest of him reacted by jumping back a foot or so.  
  
"I ... You ..." he stuttered, a bit gobsmacked. Apt, that.  
  
Alfred winced. "Sorry? You looked like you might want a kiss. Did I go too far?"  
  
"No-- no. It's just ..." Arthur turned to look in the mirror and ran his still-damp hand over his hair, pretending to straighten it. "This is merely a business relationship."  
  
Which had been an incredibly stupid thing to say, given that Alfred had been privy to none of Arthur's internal dialogue of the past few hours.  
  
"You know my business, Arthur-my-client," Alfred pointed out quite reasonably, catching Arthur's gaze in the mirror.  
  
How could Arthur forget? He'd seen the websites. He'd seen Alfred mostly naked, had the prurient fantasies. Sent himself into a tizzy of denial. _Shower massages. Alfred's fingers on his skin, soapy and long ..._  
  
"Yes, yes, but that's not why I hired you. As we've already discussed."  
  
In the mirror Arthur saw Alfred hold up his hand with his thumb and forefinger pinched together as if he were holding something invisible. He made a _chi-chicky_ -clicking noise with his tongue and moved his hand up and down. "See? I've clocked out. Just like they do in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. I'm on my own time now."  
  
"Is that so."  
  
Alfred's reflection nodded at him. Then he turned and perched his arse on the counter. He removed his glasses and rubbed them with a tissue.  
  
Arthur's brain froze at contemplating the sudden myriad of options open to him. He was a risk-taker, sure -- how else would he have gotten to be who he was today, if not so? In fewer than twenty-four hours he'd made a brave admission and sent a very daring e-mail and acquired a young man, bought and paid for and willing.  
  
His blood buzzed with possibility. He'd already gotten himself in quite deeply; he might as well dig the hole a little further. A tiny indulgence wouldn't hurt, and would likely prove once and for all that this was all nothing more than a means to an end. And prove that Alfred's lips were not nearly so lovely as he'd thought.  
  
He swiveled and used his pot-valiance to good effect, stepping close and taking Alfred's shoulders as he'd been taken moments ago and pressing a solid kiss on his mouth.  
  
He sensed Alfred's smile beneath his lips and what started hard and almost angry softened as if by mutual unspoken agreement into a slick, open-mouthed kiss. Sensual and slow, it was better than beer for making his head swim, better than anything else for sending the muscles in his belly into a tensed mess. Alfred's shoulders were hot under his fingers, or was that his own body temperature skyrocketing again, just as he'd gotten it under control?  
  
Half a minute was enough to make him realize that resolve only went so far and he'd best end this, now. It was another half a minute before Alfred dropped his glasses onto the tiled floor with a skittering _crack_ and startled Arthur into stepping away.  
  
"Whoops," Alfred said, though he made no move to retrieve his glasses. His unshielded eyes were clear and dark and impossibly long-lashed, and they were watching Arthur's mouth.  
  
"Shall I get those for you?" Arthur breathed.  
  
Alfred glanced up. "Nope. Let me tell you something first."  
  
The rest of Arthur tensed. No statement prefaced that way could be good, though it was worth waiting if only to ogle Alfred sans glasses for a few more moments. "... What?"  
  
"You. Ah, know how I said I don't have to do anything I don't want?" Alfred paused and bit his lip before continuing. "Well, there's nothing I don't want to do with you, Arthur. Just say the word."  
  
The word. The word was ... well, it was no, of course. Of course! Still Arthur was drawn by something in Alfred's steady gaze, the match that lit his fire like it hadn't been lit in a very long time. He was dry tinder ...  
  
Some shouts and thumps from outside the door shook Arthur out of his reverie and gave them warning that their private moment was to be invaded. Arthur turned and fussed with his clothing, and Alfred bent to pick up his glasses. When a group of men in football shirts shoved their way in, all was innocent as newborn lambs in a field.  
  
By the time they got back to their table, Arthur had been out of Alfred's enticing immediate orbit long enough to give a reasoned answer worthy of a grown-up. One who had a job to do, and wasn't going to let himself be derailed by lust and emotions. He took a deep breath.  
  
"I ... ah, appreciate the -- what you said. But I per-- er, propose that we follow the plan as contracted. Convince the bloody bastards I work with that I'm homosexual and, er, attached." And then the mentoring bit he'd decided, on the way back from the restroom, was a good idea. "You said you were rethinking your profession. Maybe you can make some contacts at the dinner."  
  
Alfred's gaze was re-shielded; the sunlight through the window flashed against his lenses so that the expression in his eyes was unreadable. "Contacts with the bloody bastards? Um, okay. Whatever makes you happy, Arthur."  
  
The name was said like a caress, but a bit of a dry and brittle one, if Arthur were any judge of tone. "A sucshesful evening is all I ask, really."  
  
"Great! Here, I'll clock back in." Alfred grinned with his teeth clenched tight and made the paper-into-timeclock gesture in thin air again, then held up his hand as if examining the stamped sheet. "Oh, look. It's three-thirty already."  
  
_Three-thirty?_   The dinner was at five. Arthur jumped to his feet and the room spun for a moment. Because of panic, of course. "Fuck. Bloody fuck-fuck hell. I still have to go by the von-con-vention center before we even get dressed."  
  
Alfred stood and peered down at Arthur, his eyes again visible and his expression seeming a bit softened from what it had been moments before. "Are you drunk, Arthur?"  
  
"No. Of course not." Arthur shook his head not to clear it but to emphasize his point. "Go out and flag down our driver?"  
  
"Riiight."  
  
Alfred rushed off and Arthur went to pay their bill. _Fuck, fuck, fuck everything, really._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Liberace Museum closed in 2010, later the same year I left Las Vegas, and apparently it's been replaced by a huge Vape dealership. Too bad! I included it anyway because I just wanted something cheesy and brief (and it was a great place, with many nice ladies who worked for and with Liberace and could give you all the inside scoops on his life). This is rushed, as I said, and un-beta-read, so please feel free to point out any errors or inconsistencies. Reviews, comments, concrit, all are LOVE! Thank you for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end! I hope it's not too rushed, and happy Christmas in July, hannaadi88!

A little slurry and wobbly did not equate to _drunk_ , thought Arthur as he walked at a brisk pace through the convention center, navigating the long hallways full of last-minute construction.  
  
He felt much better besides. He was British, after all, and metabolized quickly. The quarter-hour ride and Alfred's renewed bright chatter had restored a bit of his equilibrium. The bottle of water Alfred had pressed on him from the limousine's refrigerator had also gone a fair way towards cleansing his system. Perhaps the young man had a point about dehydration.  
  
The young man: there, with that thought, Arthur had already created a proper separation in his mind between himself and Alfred. _The young man_ was a nicely businesslike and neutral epithet in his mind, more so than an _Alfred who kissed like a succubus_ or an Alfred whose skin was warm and whose clothing Arthur wanted to shred with his fingernails. Enduring the evening with a more paternal viewpoint would behoove him well if such lustful thoughts were to be avoided, he thought.  
  
 _The young man_ barely had to lengthen his strides to keep up with Arthur's near-jog.  
  
"Do you even know where you're going?" Alfred said on a half-laugh.  
  
"Doubtless! I was here yesterday," Arthur informed _the young man_ with a sniff, only slightly breathless. And there, he'd barely thought at all about fucking Alfred with soapy fingers on his slender hips. He spotted the sign for convention halls C1 to C4. "It's right here."  
  
Of course "right here" was merely the main entrance to the cavernous exhibition area, but Arthur had chosen their spot himself months before, hadn't he? Centrally located, a double booth with one-tenth scale modern arches installed. Yesterday it had been naught but a blank space.  
  
"Holy shit. I'm getting a first look at Samsung's new products, aren't I?"  
  
The voice had come from behind him. Arthur turned to see Alfred lagging, goggling at the wares being arranged by some smiling Asian women.  
  
"Keep up," Arthur grumbled. His own company dealt in global linking of networks and streamlining communications and would have no such showy, handheld gadgets on offer.  
  
Hopefully they'd have a booth, however? Arthur mentally reviewed the texts and e-mails his mobile had alerted him to earlier -- the ones not dealing with his sexual orientation. Something needed to arrive and be placed ...  
  
He spotted his employees just ahead, talking and laughing and passing a bottle of wine like they hadn't been ready to explode with panic only hours previously. Without preamble, he strode into their midst. The arches looked nice, anyway. Clean.  
  
"Oi!" he called and pointed. "This goes here, and that goes ..." He paused as he looked around the finished exhibit. "It's already there."  
  
"Mister Kirkland!" came the delayed, surprised chorus of voices. Raivis and Toris scattered to pretend busyness, wiping down the already spotless cabinetry and such. Bella merely crossed her arms at him. She was already wearing an evening dress and heels, and her blonde bob was pulled up into a knot.  
  
"The paperwork and display models showed up at last, and you seemed busy, so I just set up as seemed best," she told him.  
  
"Fuck me blind. And here I cut my lunch short," Arthur said. Bella's eyes widened the tiniest bit.  
  
"Sorry. Sounds like it was a good lunch, anyway."  
  
What was that supposed to mean? Arthur looked around for something to change, something to manage. "The scan boxes could be more prominently displayed. Still, well done."  
  
"Thank you," Bella said, uncrossing her arms and peering over his shoulder. "Bit of wine, sir? And who's this, then?"  
  
Alfred had sauntered into the booth at last. "A ... young man I know," Arthur said. "Alfred, this is Bella Debrusse, my vice-president of operations. Bella, Alfred Jones."  
  
"Nice to meetcha! No thanks," Alfred said as he shook Bella's hand and she offered him wine in a plastic cup emblazoned with the Las Vegas Convention Center logo. Arthur took one. He didn't want to be unappreciative of their work, and they'd likely be late for the cocktail reception prior to the dinner.  
  
"The dinner! Bollocks," he exclaimed aloud. He downed the wine in two gulps and handed Bella the empty cup. "Must be off. Cheerio."  
  
Bella stared at him. "Cheerio? Hah."  
  
"We leaving already?" Alfred said.  
  
"Yes." Arthur swiveled on his heel, hardly wobbling as he did it. He began to stride out of the hall as quickly as he'd entered.  
  
Bella caught up with him before the dawdling Alfred. She dogged his quick steps and walked close. "With respect, sir, I always knew. He's very cute, too."  
  
Arthur tucked his chin into his shirt collar to hide the flush of heat that overtook him even in the air-conditioned chill of the convention center. Yes, yes he was. "Good for you, luv. Nice work. Ta!" He sped up his steps.  
  
"See you later. Did he just call me "luv?"" Arthur heard her say from behind him.  
  
"I think so," Toris or Raivis said.  
  
Alfred was catching up; Arthur grabbed his hand and pulled him along, not daring to look back.  
  
"Whuh? Holding hands? You must be drunk," Alfred said, squeezing his fingers in such a way that a shiver ran down Arthur's spine that had nothing to do with air conditioning.  
  
"Not at all. Merely trying to hurry and keep you from gawking at my competition."  
  
"Still. I like it when you get grabby, Arthur," Alfred said, his voice pure drawling, spinning silk.  
  
Arthur almost shook off Alfred's hand like it had set him on fire. It had begun to feel that way, anyway. Shivering before the burning match -- he wasn't drunk at all. This place with its baking outdoors and freezing indoors and ... and _Alfreds_ was just getting to him. He focused on their feet, step step step. "Well, it's only necessary because you're inclined to linger. Come along, young man."  
  
"Young man?   What are you -- my father?" Alfred's voice sounded strangled, like the silk thread had snagged on its wheel.  
  
"No. Just the sugar daddy."  
  
Alfred squeezed his fingers again. "Hah. Good comeback."  
  
 _Boyfriend, client, paternal benefactor._ "Oh! Speaking of," Arthur said, though they actually hadn't been. It made sense in his head, which was all that really mattered. He halted and shook his hand free of Alfred's grip to pull out his wallet. He plucked out a credit card and pressed it into Alfred's palm. "Why don't you take a cab and get shome new shoes, then meet me back at the hotel? Do it sharpish or we shan't have time to get you dressed."  
  
Alfred just stared at the card in his hand. "Shome shoes, sharpish? Still don't pass the British Customs inspection?"  
  
"Don't be silly."  
  
Alfred looked back up at him eye and canted an eyebrow. His eyes had turned some indeterminate color. "You're awfully trusting. I'm starting to think you're a lunatic. Cute, but a lunatic."  
  
"If so, I'm a lunatic who trusts you to hurry."  
  
Alfred looked back down at the card and shrugged. "Okay, dad. I'll be back. You need a keeper." With that he leaned forward before Arthur could protest and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then he was gone, long legs heading for another exit.'  
  
"I need a drink, is what I need," Arthur said aloud.  
  
In the car, alone again, he had another glass of wine, this one a chilled white. He powered on his mobile. Jesus, he wanted a cigarette.  
  
 _Yes, it's true_ , he texted his cousins. How easy it was, coming out thousands of miles away from home! It was like a dream of truth at last. Give 'em all time to get used to the notion-- what a grand idea. The reality, the censure, would come when he went back to the UK.  
  
Arthur mostly forgot how he got to his room. Once there, however, he couldn't help but notice their clothing, pressed and laid out and ready. Two sets of clothes. Two people. Arthur was responsible for someone other than himself, another person. A man. He would be seen in front of his colleagues with a man.  
  
This had been a terrible idea from the beginning. What had he been thinking? He could hardly remember.  
  
After that, Arthur remembered many things. He remembered arriving at the Bellagio's indoor gardens just in time for a drink at the reception before the dinner -- a real glass, no plastic cups here -- and no cocktail, wine would be lovely from here on out, ta! He was only patted on the back with knowing winks and asides several times, the dream of acceptance returning.  
  
They adored Alfred, who was gregarious and attractive and behaved more than well enough for the bloody bastards to appreciate. He even got Thomassen, aloof Thomassen, to be civil, and Francis Bonnefoy more than civil. The French: very close talkers.  
  
"I'm devoted to my guy Arthur, here," Alfred laughed. He looked very well in his suit.  
  
Good young man. Lad. Devoted to him. Arthur. For the night, anyway. Paid for it, he had. Alfred had even brought Arthur a receipt. For the shoes. Good Alfred.  
  
The stories Arthur had heard were obviously untrue. Strung out male prostitutes! Not Alfred, who sat the round banquet table and chatted perfectly with men and women alike. Lookit 'im, leaning over while Bella whispered something in his ear. Fine woman, very smart. She seemed a little frayed around the edges, however.  
  
Arthur clasped Alfred's shoulder to get his attention. He liked touching Alfred's shoulder; his fingers liked feeling the movement of live flesh under his clothing. Much too expensive to shred, really. "Got something to ask you," he said.  
  
Good lad, Alfred leaned close and put his chin in his hands. His smile truly was nice. Very white. "Ask away."  
  
"Do you do drugs?"  
  
Alfred's grin wasn't so nice when he gritted his teeth! But then maybe he really hadn't done it at all, for his eyes were very light and pretty and his long fingers lovely as they clasped Arthur's hand and squeezed it. "No." He released Arthur's hand and leaned closer to speak in Arthur's ear. "Uh, I guess it's a fair question, though. A lot of guys do. It's sad. But I'm not really in the scene. An amateur, yannow. And I'm making those contacts you wanted, Arthur."  
  
"Good. Good," Arthur murmured, closing his eyes. He liked Alfred's mouth near his ear, the confidential puffs of breath and sound. Alfred's hands were on him again. Around his back, perhaps?  
  
"Whoops! Gotta stay upright," Alfred said.  
  
"Not amateur. Just fucking sell yourself," Arthur thought he said.  
  
"Yes, Arthur. Thank you, Arthur," Alfred laughed. Arthur maybe saw Bella's eyes widen in horror over Alfred's shoulder.  
  
Didn't matter. He liked Alfred's hands on him, yes. Liked it a lot. Liked the way he kissed, said his name. The way he looked at Arthur like he was someone fun. Someone desirable. Paid for it, he had, Arthur thought. Why shouldn't he just relax and enjoy it?  
  
***  
  
Arthur was very relaxed. Face-down was the way to be, yes, on a soft pillow. It was only too bad that his mouth felt cottony, like he'd been eating the pillow instead of resting on it. Strange, that.  
  
Even stranger, he heard singing. It was muted, but it was definitely there. _Alone in your electric chair ..._  
  
He opened his eyes to near darkness that was broken only by a flickering bluish light. It was the telly, the big one in his hotel room, the one Alfred had so admired earlier--  
  
"Oh, fuck," he muttered. He was in his hotel room. He didn't remember getting there. Thus, he had obviously passed out at some point. _Fuck._  
  
"You're awake," came Alfred's flat voice from somewhere in the direction of the telly.  
  
Arthur propped himself up onto his elbows, testing his head and his balance. All seemed pretty well, considering. Only the barest dregs of fuzziness teased at the edges of his brain. It was his mouth that needed help. His teeth tasted awful. But Alfred -- Alfred was still there. Arthur looked over and saw the silhouette of a sheeted lump on the sofa, and the flash of blue light on Alfred's glasses.  
  
"Yes?" he said, or squeaked, more like.  
  
"Okay. You talk in your sleep, did you know that?"  
  
"So my brothers tell me." Arthur wanted to go back to sleep or perhaps even die, not because of any physical instability but because he was mortified. For a few moments he tried to remember what had happened, but decided that further humiliation could wait for later. First, he needed to get up and brush his teeth. He pushed until he was sitting upright; his head was good but his hand was a little numb. There was something on his finger, cutting off circulation. He shoved his hand into his face to examine it. "What's this ring, then?"  
  
There was a wave from the direction of the sofa. "A wedding ring. We got married! Mwah," Alfred said, his voice sounding just a little high and strained.  
  
Arthur's heart stopped and he may have shrieked. "What?"  
  
A deep, groaning sigh greeted his near-fainting panic. "Just kidding. Geeze. They don't let drunks get married in Las Vegas, stupid."  
  
Arthur's heart started thumping again, this time in overdrive, and he gulped several breaths to calm it. "That wasn't very nice," he said when he could speak again.  
  
"It's what you get for being a drunken shithead, Arthur," Alfred said. His voice now sounded amused: better.  
  
And he had a point. Arthur had behaved very badly. And yet here Alfred was! He certainly wasn't required to be so. Arthur wanted to ask why, but was still too embarrassed. At least, he assumed that was why he was warm all over. That, or the intimacy of being in a darkened hotel room with Alfred. "I need to take a piss," he mumbled instead.  
  
"I don't doubt it. I poured like three bottles of water down you."  
  
"Did you?" Arthur didn't dare ask more. There was something else he had to do first, even more urgent than taking a piss and brushing his teeth. He rolled himself out of bed -- he was wearing naught but his shirt and boxers and socks, though being half-dressed was the least of his worries. He stepped over to the sofa and looked down at Alfred.  
  
Alfred looked back up at him, though his eyes were hidden behind the reflections on his glasses. He was tangled in the sheet, wearing only his boxers and the TV remote, which was sitting on his stomach. His very nice stomach. Arthur wanted to lick it. On the telly, in low volume, Billy Joel was singing _you may be right; I may be crazy._ Apt.  
  
"I'm very sorry," Arthur said. "I was a "drunken shithead," as you say, and you were right about slowing down. In my defense I don't usually get so pissed, but there really was no excuse for doing it now. Thank you for taking care of me. And for staying."  
  
Arthur wasn't sure, but Alfred may have blushed. He did very definitely smile, his teeth bright in the half-dark. "That was a great apology, Arthur. You're welcome, though you did book an overnight."  
  
Arthur waved his still-numb hand. "You've more than fulfilled your time with me. What time is it, by the way?"  
  
"Roundabouts midnight."  
  
"Oh, lord. I must have gone down very early." A brief memory flashed in his brain of grumbling at one of the hovering Vargas brothers. "No, don't tell me yet. Excuse me for a moment."  
  
He walked to the bathroom, not even staggering thanks to British metabolism. After wrenching off the ring and relieving himself he loaded his toothbrush with paste and shoved it into his mouth, examining his face in the mirror as he brushed away the cotton. His eyes were still not bloodshot, miracle of miracles, though his lips were a little pink and swollen. How had that--  
  
Another memory surfaced, this one bit by bit, like the bathroom light was the sun burning away a patchy fog: of straddling Alfred's lap in the car, of deep, gasping kisses and Alfred, breathless, saying _no, you really should just lay down here mmph ..._  
  
 _\--oh, God_. When Arthur had splashed water over his face and left the bathroom, he asked, "Did I molest you in the limousine?"  
  
"Ha ha! I guess you could call it that." Alfred was playing with the telly remote.  
  
And yet he'd stayed. "Sorry."  
  
"'S all right. I don't feel molested."  
  
Arthur fell back onto the sofa, barely missing Alfred's feet as he pulled his knees closer to his chest. "I really don't do that, get that drunk--"  
  
"So Bella said." Alfred pressed the mute button. "She was worried as hell."  
  
"I can only imagine," Arthur said. It was then that he noticed the crumpled packet of crisps and half-eaten candy bar on the table. "You raided the mini-bar?"  
  
Alfred nodded. "We missed dinner, after all. I didn't want to order room service and wake you up."  
  
Not even dinner? Arthur must have gotten a great deal of sleep. No wonder he felt so much better. His lips tingled: even after all that, Alfred had stayed. The refrain wouldn't stop streaming through Arthur's mind, like a crawler repeating itself on the BBC World News Update. _Breaking News: Arthur Kirkland, British Entrepreneur, Continues To Disbelieve The Evidence Of His Own Eyes And Heart_. This went beyond pay. Alfred must like him, even if only a little.  
  
And Arthur ... well, Arthur wanted him more than ever. All along he'd been free to do what he wanted with someone whom he found attractive and whose company he enjoyed, and yet he hadn't done hardly a thing until pissed out of his mind.  
  
New urgency melted his insides even as it steeled his courage: he would have to do much better from that moment on out. He twisted some of the borrowed bedsheet in his fingers. "Do you feel beholden to me?"  
  
"God, no. What a weird question." Alfred leaned in close, mere inches close, and looked at Arthur over the rim of his glasses. "I coulda left whenever I wanted. But your couch is pretty comfortable."  
  
Arthur was drawn forward as well, like a bug to a shining thing. "Do you want the bed?"  
  
"Depends." Alfred hovered so near Arthur could feel the word brush his lips with breath. "Are you gonna be in it?"  
  
Arthur's heart plummeted into his stomach like a boulder from a cliff. It must have shown in his expression, for Alfred rolled his eyes. "God, you're so stupid sometimes, Arthur."  
  
It was more than true, but made more than better when Alfred tackled him and kissed him, fast, firm and close-mouthed, an invitation for Arthur to nudge his tongue inside and deepen it. He'd liked those frantic, passionate kisses in the car, and so had Alfred, if Arthur's hazy memories of rocking hips and skin hadn't deceived him.  
  
The memories ended there. This, he'd see through.  
  
Clearheaded, he could indulge himself in the feel of Alfred's tongue sliding against his, feel their easy breaths grow sharper and quicker even as he lost track of the seconds -- minutes -- that passed.  
  
Their twisted position was awkward but soon rectified. Arthur fell forward, sharing the narrow sofa and using Alfred's lean, warm body like cushions.  
  
Sharing -- or taking? Did it matter? It did. Arthur took Alfred's glasses captive and deposited them on the table among the crumpled foil remnants of Alfred's dinner. He caressed Alfred's cheeks with his thumbs and examined his unhidden eyes, dark in the darkened room. The dream of truth. Liberty, like the Americans might say.  
  
"Tell me again why you bothered to stay?"  
  
He could feel Alfred's shrug beneath him. "I dunno. Let's fuck and maybe I'll think of it."  
  
"Unhh." Arthur's belly muscles tightened at such an evasive and yet effective reply. "Yes, please?"  
  
Alfred's smile was blinding, so close, not in shine but in sincerity. Arthur lost further vision momentarily when Alfred wriggled his hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Arthur's cock. "So are all British men so polite in the sack?"  
  
"They are when you've got 'em by the fucking brains," Arthur breathed into Alfred's chin.  
  
"Ha!"  
  
His long fingers worked heaven on Arthur's aching, hot flesh. It was irresistible, the urge to roll his hips into Alfred's skillful grip moving on him. He held fast to Alfred's soft hair and licked his chin, his lips, his teeth, tasting his grin. Moans escaped from deep in his throat.  
  
Pleasure built quickly and before long Arthur could feel his belly tense with acute languor, that urgency that was so much better than any other physical sensation and yet was over so quickly--  
  
"Am I good?" Alfred murmured into Arthur's open, gasping mouth.  
  
"Yes-- very good. Ah--" Arthur's arse clenched and he closed his eyes as pleasure spiked, tight and fast--  
  
Alfred stilled his hand, squeezing, holding Arthur in the aching moment.  
  
"You told me I was, quote, 'terrible at this escorting business.'"  
  
"Wha--?" Gasping, Arthur opened his eyes to see Alfred wearing a pout. As Arthur struggled to remember -- yes, yes he had, hadn't he? -- the pout morphed into a lopsided grin. The twat was teasing him. It was a punishment he more than deserved, but he glared anyway. "I was doing an excellent job of forgetting that, thank you," he coughed out.  
  
"Ha ha! I thought so." Alfred kissed Arthur's nose and released his cock, which throbbed with thwarted near-release. "You also said we could use the bed."  
  
"That, I remember," Arthur said. Ignoring the tight pain in his nethers, he pushed away from Alfred and eased his groaning way off the sofa.  
  
Alfred groaned a little himself as he was pulled upwards. Arthur glanced down and could see his erection, stretching the front of his (very expensive) silk boxers. He brushed his hand over it, savoring the evidence of Alfred's reciprocal desire.  
  
Alfred _mmmm_ ed and squeezed Arthur's fingers. "You also told Thomassen I was too young for you."  
  
"I lied," Arthur said, and pulled Alfred towards the bed. A thought struck him as they reached it: if revelation were the order of the evening it had to be said, for good or ill. He made himself look (up) into Alfred's rather myopic gaze. "Please. Just ... be with me, as if you'd be with any man you'd chosen of your own free will?"  
  
Alfred hmphed and rolled his eyes. "Do you think I'd be here if I hadn't chosen to be with you?"  
  
That was good enough for Arthur, for his heart and his body. The nature of Alfred's job and their relationship was undeniable. But where the affection was mutual, it mattered for little. He pushed Alfred onto the bed, pitting good, old-fashioned English lust against American frankness. Alfred allowed himself to be pushed, laughing softly as he bounced on the mattress. Arthur jumped him soon after.  
  
Once there he gathered Alfred close and kissed him to silence his cheekiness. They tangled in the sheets and each other, and he stroked all of Alfred's bare skin that he could reach -- his shoulders, his ribs, his soft belly, feeling the rippling shudders under his skin -- and covered Alfred's mouth with his own and stole his breath until he was flushed and shining.  
  
The forcibly banked embers of Arthur's arousal heated inexorably once more, but he almost felt as if he could be happy with just this: the intimacy of tongues and gasps. Alfred, who lifted boxes for salespeople. Alfred, who'd watched him with such ill-disguised anticipation as they'd looked at fancy cars, trying to see if he, Arthur, was enjoying himself. That naiveté had been -- was -- compelling.  
  
They hadn't even removed their boxers but they managed to arch themselves into fitting together, rocking their hips in rhythms that were more intensely exciting for not quite matching. After his near-climax earlier, Arthur's cock was as sensitive as if he'd already come, and the friction of the cloth between their erections was exquisitely sharp.  
  
"God, Arthur, you are a lunatic." The breathless quality of Alfred's voice, all hoarse and hitched, made the sweat break out behind Arthur's ears. Lord, he wanted to own that voice, capture it in his fingers and hold it next to his ear at night when he was alone.  
  
"Is that all right?" Arthur asked, nibbling the pulse just under Alfred's jaw.  
  
"Yeah. No, wait--" Arthur had wriggled his hand between them, needing to come, wanting to come and wanting to bring Alfred with him, but Alfred captured it and entwined their fingers together.  
  
"What?" Arthur croaked. _Close, so close ...  
_  
Arthur was good, old-fashioned many things British but Alfred was still a bit stronger; he pulled Arthur's hand away from their cocks and rolled him over onto his back, kneeling and unbuttoning Arthur's (very expensive and now happily wrinkled) shirt.  
  
"Let me do what I want for a while. Relax. You've had a long, hard day ..." Alfred's voice was butter, it was so smooth with innuendo, and his fingers light on Arthur's shivering chest as it was exposed -- but then he laughed. "... of being a total _dipshit_."  
  
Arthur groaned and flopped his head back onto the sheets. "Such abuse! I'm very important, you know."  
  
"So I gathered," Alfred said. The teasing was forgiven, however, as he next worked on sliding Arthur's shorts down. Arthur wriggled his arse off the bed to help. Whatever it was Alfred wanted to do, Arthur was all for it.  
  
He was rewarded with a warm kiss on his quivering belly and then another, on his yearning cock. "Dear God," he murmured. He wouldn't be able to take much of that.  
  
Wonder of wonders he endured a delightful few minutes of Alfred sucking him slowly, his lips feather-light on Arthur's cock. Arthur settled his fingers delicately into Alfred's fair hair and watched: the sight of it was nearly as pleasurable as the deep, aching rise and fall of sensation. Alfred's face was shiny, his lips rather swollen from Arthur's earlier, almost aggressive kisses. All too soon each rise became more intense than its fall and his thighs were tense and shuddering. He wanted to come, was tight and full and ... would Alfred let him? This game of denying his release -- Alfred was skilled at it, Arthur would give him that. Rather more subtle than Arthur would have expected.  
  
Still, a warning was only polite. As he took several deep gasps, each one in anticipation of climax, he pulled at Alfred's hair and--  
  
It was more than sufficient to stop Alfred's lips upon him, _dammit, dammit dammit_.  
  
"Are you about to come, Arthur?"  
  
"Yes, yes," Arthur panted, and he was yanking Alfred's hair but dignity was forgotten in that moment. Alfred's merest breath was torture.  
  
"Are you a top or a bottom?"  
  
"You -- you!" Arthur bitched between gasps. "Argh. A top."  
  
"Oh. Oh, good," Alfred sighed. That sigh had sounded and felt promising, but even still, he pried Arthur's fingers out of his hair, then rolled off the bed and stumbled over towards the couch. "Be right back."  
  
"Hell, hell. Fine," Arthur mumbled, flat on his back and sweating and tense all over, unable to muster the muscle power to follow him or even move, anyway. His cock ached in the cool air of the room, erect and easing only infinitesimally with each breath. What torture was to be visited up on him next?  
  
Alfred soon returned, however, carrying a foil packet. He paused before climbing back on the bed, eyeing Arthur's abused cock. "Wow. Bet you're hurting, Arthur."  
  
"You're a bloody bastard," Arthur moaned at him.  
  
"I know. But let me put this on you and I'll let you do what you like. I promise."  
  
"I would say I don't believe you, but you're being very responsible." Arthur grinned as he said it to mitigate his prim tone. Also, he liked how Alfred's eyes softened and darkened whenever he was smiled at. What would Arthur do without such earnestness, when morning came and he had to work and Alfred had to leave? To think that once he'd looked forward to that.  
  
But morning was hours away and for those hours, at least Arthur had someone all to himself, someone who burnt him to a desperate crisp. Alfred, who was artless in how he said what the thought, and yet who'd been thoughtful enough to put him to bed.  
  
Who also deserved pleasure and tit for tat: the condom he applied with deft fingers captured Arthur's belly-throbbing ache and held it, dulling sensation enough that Arthur might, just might, last.  
  
Perhaps even outlast. Once fully dressed, as it were, Arthur lay beside Alfred and kissed him, big, lip-sucking kisses. He applied himself to removing Alfred's boxers and examining his flushed, hard cock with drifting fingers. Good thing he wasn't to be the bottom. Alfred groaned and arched into his touch.    
  
The packet of lubricant made his grip slick on Alfred's erection. Alfred yelped when Arthur bit his earlobe and urged his cock along with slippery yet firm jerks.  
  
"A world of hurt? Was that the phrase you used?" Arthur murmured into his ear.  
  
"I meant hangovers. Ungh," Alfred muttered.  
  
"I don't have one, for once."  
  
"Lucky."  
  
"Yes, yes I am," Arthur said. He'd goggled like a secret pervert in the dressing room at Alfred's slender body earlier. Here, no adjustments to his worldview were necessary, just admiration of the bundle of young energy Alfred was. Titillating websites could be forgotten in the feel of his own lubricated fingers in Alfred's arse, tight, moving, real.  
  
"Do-- d'you want me on my knees?" Alfred panted, huffing as he wriggled about, adjusting to Arthur's fingers inside him.  
  
"No fucking way. Stay just like this."  
  
"Hah! Ah. Didja notice you curse when you're drunk or horny?"  
  
Arthur twisted his fingers inside, stretching and probing, and Alfred body clenched and jerked when Arthur found a sensitive spot. "Is that a problem?" Arthur said, smug that he was not to be totally outclassed in the bedroom.  
  
"No. I like you better horny, though. Ah!" he cried as Arthur did whatever he'd done again. "When I'm sure you can actually see me."  
  
 _I like seeing you_ , Arthur just managed not to say in return, feeling the warm clutch of emotion at his heart, all his insides. Instead he pressed his lips to the tip of Alfred's nose, much as Alfred had done to him earlier. "That was a very sweet thing to say."  
  
Alfred flushed so violently that it was visible even in the room's dim, flashing light. "Did I sound stupid?"  
  
"Lord, no." Arthur would have told him to stop doubting himself, but there were pots and there were kettles, after all -- Alfred's company had taught him that about himself -- and besides, his mentoring hours were over.  
  
At the moment what he wanted, what would make him happy, would be to see Alfred's face when he was being fucked. Shame it was too dark to see the color of his eyes. Arthur tried to see, anyway, pressing so close along Alfred's body that he thought he might be able to count his eyelashes.  
  
"How long do you think you can last, Arthur?" Alfred murmured against his lips.  
  
"What? Now you've done it," Arthur said, squeezing the bottom of Alfred's thigh as he strove to encompass it with his fingers, own as much desert-warmed skin as he could reach. "Pushed me too bloody far."  
  
"Ha ha!" Alfred said. He was so unafraid that he teased Arthur's hair before palming his shoulders and gripping tight.  
  
Alfred's expression was happily all Arthur could have wished for: gape-mouthed, shining with sweat, his eyelashes long over his half-opened eyes, one-two-three-four-five-six-ah! His wrestling years, and likely other experience, proved him quite flexible as well. Arthur bent him in half, driving in hard as if he might break him in twain.  
  
Of course he couldn't. What he could do was find that spot again with his cock, angling his thrusts up until he could practically see the stars in Alfred's eyes.  
  
"Ah! Ah--" Alfred panted, and Arthur fancied he could hear is own name in there, a new voice to capture for his collection.  
  
As Arthur savored the moments with his ears and eyes, the movement was merely instinctive, almost an afterthought -- a shared rhythm as Alfred clenched his knees over Arthur's shoulders at every thrust of his hips. But even dulled by the condom it was too lovely, too tight and fast.  
  
Heat coiled low in Arthur's belly, pulsing, pleasurable, and his hips tried to quicken their pace. But it was too soon -- enjoy climax at last, or avoid the inevitable taunting? _Decisions, decisions_. He shuddered to a halt, breathing hard into the sweaty spot just below Alfred's jaw, tasting first the race of his pulse and then the rumble of his voice.  
  
"Hah! I didn't think you'd last that long. Oops--"  
  
His leg slipped from Arthur's shoulder. Arthur's neck tingled where cool air met the burn of sweat and the chafe of Alfred's fine leg hairs (thank goodness he didn't shave; Arthur loved hair on a man's legs).  
  
"I'm not done yet, dolt," Arthur said, trying to make his tone sound as fond as he felt. "Now it's personal. Here."  
  
He straightened to his knees and pulled Alfred to him by his hips. He shoved his cock in deep, and held it, and held it some more, the only movement between them the heaving of their breaths.  
  
Then he slid out and thrust again, hard. Alfred cried out and arched his back until Arthur could see the line of his chin, the sweat dripping down it.  
  
"Th-- thank you for the shoes, by the way, Arthur," Alfred said to the ceiling.  
  
"Hah-- ah-- hah!" Arthur snorted, mid-thrust. He was too breathless to laugh, though his chest shook at the ridiculousness of it. He snaked a hand between them to grip Alfred's cock. "Don't try and distract me, you."  
  
"Just-- ohgod -- being polite," Alfred moaned as Arthur picked up his rhythm again, fucking away the cheekiness once more.  
  
Arthur missed the closeness, the tight fit of their bodies. But this position afforded a broader view, of the curve of Alfred's chest, the flex of muscles in his belly, and the grip of his fingers in the bedsheets as he shuddered into climax, sticky on Arthur's hand.  
  
And thus at last, long last, Arthur thrust as he wished, messy and off-kilter and wonderful, and let the tight pleasure build until it reached its exquisite apex and he pulsed in release into Alfred's clenching body.  
  
Then he was free to flop forward and kiss Alfred again, clutching his face tightly in semen-sweaty-sticky fingers.  
  
"Hah. You fight filthy," Alfred murmured when the mad race of their lungs and hearts had eased, when Arthur let him speak again.  
  
"Honed on the mean streets of London's West End," Arthur murmured back a he curled alongside him.  
  
"Is that the bad part of town?"  
  
"No," Arthur said. "Hmm. Americans!"  
  
"Try and tell me you know your way around Bah-ston," Alfred said with a heretofore-unheard East-Coast accent.   He pulled at strands of his sticky hair. "Well, I suppose I've had worse messes."  
  
"Didn't you mention something about showers?" Arthur said.  
  
"Geeze, where do you get your energy?"  
  
"I don't have any at the moment," Arthur admitted. "Give me five minutes."  
  
Alfred fiddled with the remote on the bedside while Arthur toyed with the small hairs around Alfred's nipples. Alfred eventually figured out how to raise the room-wide window shade: they watched the city outside for a while, the twinkling strings of tiny lights that disappeared into black nothingness at the edge of the mountains.  
  
Somewise ten minutes later Alfred rolled out of bed to make use of the loo. Arthur sighed and luxuriated on the bed for a few moments, realizing that he was more relaxed than he could remember being in quite a while. He didn't remember passing out, so that didn't count.  
  
Eventually he rose and rolled off the condom and knotted it, and was trying to decide how best to dispose of it when Alfred whistled from the door to the bathroom.  
  
"Holy shit. Did you see that bathroom?"  
  
"Yes. Several times."  
  
"It's a ... it's like a Jacuzzi-shower!"  
  
Ah, the things Arthur took for granted, like well-appointed hotel rooms, good shoes, and disposing of well-used condoms in well-appointed hotel rooms he shared with a lovely man. The morning, the world of gossip and, likely, recrimination, seemed suddenly closer than ever. But he did have a little while.  
  
And Alfred did give lovely massages. He kneaded Arthur's back with soapy fingers under the flowing water until Arthur sank to the floor and pulled Alfred down with him. There he kissed Alfred and washed semen out of his hair until he'd tasted enough shampoo, and they enjoyed a leisurely mutual wank and let the hot, hot water wash it all away.  
  
Clean, they sat on the sofa, chatting drowsily and not watching the muted late-night television shows.  
  
***  
  
Arthur was woken by the obnoxious ring of a telephone. He flew out of a bundle of sheets to his feet, disoriented once more. Las Vegas. Encore. He'd been on the sofa, yes. He looked down to see Alfred, naked, stretching and yawning.  
  
"Bella said you had breakfast at six-fifteen. So I put in for a wake-up call at five-thirty," Alfred said, putting on his glasses.  
  
"Oh," Arthur said. "Um. Thank you. That was thoughtful."  
  
"Yep," Alfred said.  
  
Arthur answered the automated call and pressed "one" to indicate that yes, he was indeed awake. All the things he had to do that day, all the things he'd managed to place firmly in the back of his mind during the previous evening, came crowding in: breakfast and last-minute planning with his employees at six-fifteen; arrive at the booth by seven-fifteen for an eight o'clock opening; luncheon with possible distributors at twelve-thirty; seminar at three; recap with Bella and Thomassen and Thomassen's number one at five-thirty. Dinner at some point after that, probably with Thomassen, then entertaining more possible distributors after that, then et cetera, and more et cetera for the remainder of his three days in town.  
  
Well, that was what he did, correct? Did business. He didn't afford well-appointed hotel rooms by dilly-dallying.  
  
At least he'd already showered. He took a moment to watch Alfred pulling on trousers, then went to the bathroom to perform the necessary ablutions.  
  
After he'd shaved, brushed his teeth, scrambled into his clothing and composed several e-mails in his head, he emerged from the bathroom to see Alfred, dressed in his shirt and trousers from the previous day, standing by the unshaded window. He was watching the sunrise as it touched the tops of the mountains to the west. Shopping bags, presumably containing his other clothing, stood by his feet. His hands were shoved into his pockets.  
  
He turned to give Arthur a half-grin. "Guess I'd better go."  
  
"Oh. Yes," Arthur said. Suddenly the room seemed, as it had yesterday, a sanctuary, the place where he hid from harsh, desert daylight and did things that Arthur Kirkland never did. Like hire someone he didn't know on the word of someone he knew not at all. Except now he did know Alfred, or felt he did, at least better than most of the people he associated with on a daily basis. Yet after all that, the time had come for the association to end. Arthur's ribs hurt thinking about it.  
  
Not for the first time, he wondered how it would have been with a different escort. Would it have been the cool, easy parting of ways he'd imagined yesterday when he'd thought of it merely as a convenient business arrangement? Another person might not have helped him back to the room, might have simply demanded payment and deservedly never infringed upon their own time.  
  
Talk about Alfred: he, Arthur, wasn't cut out for this sort of thing at all. Or was it not him, and this was special, somehow?  
  
Regardless, he did owe Alfred a concrete debt as well as an emotional one. He dug out his wallet and counted out the price they'd discussed over e-mail.  
  
Alfred had bent to pick up his purchases and didn't see Arthur's outstretched hand and wad of money. "Well, good luck with the show. Tell Bella--" He stood, then paused when he saw the money. He shook his head and held up the bags. "This stuff more than covers it, Arthur."  
  
"Nonsense," Arthur said, scowling at such naiveté: that had its place, and now wasn't it. "Don't ever refuse to accept an agreed-upon payment."  
  
Alfred might have frowned for a moment, but the window was behind him and his face was in shadow, so Arthur couldn't be sure. When he stepped forward into the light to take the money, his lips and one eyebrow were quirked. "You're right. Thanks."  
  
"Do-- do you--" Arthur started to say, _do you have plans or other clients_ , but then realized that was both none of his business and didn't matter anyway, because he had no free time. "I have your e-mail," he said instead, hoping the meaning came through: _if I come back_. Which he hoped to, that was certain.  
  
"You have my cell phone number, because I programmed it into your phone. You should really lock your phone, Arthur. You're in the business, after all."  
  
"Oh, yes," Arthur agreed. Then, for lack of a better thing to say, he said, "Thank you."  
  
"No, thank you!" Alfred picked up his bags. As he passed by he gave Arthur a quick peck on the cheek and laughed at his surprised expression. "Probably went too far! Later, Arthur."  
  
Then he was gone. Arthur resisted the urge to shove his hands in his pockets and stare at the sunrise. He had a lot of work to begin. A lot of real life to not look forward to.  
  
***  
  
Of course, when Alfred showed up at Arthur's Globaltex booth at four-fifty-five, and said "I happen to have some cash. How about I treat you to dinner?" Arthur said "Yes."  
  
And he smiled very widely as he said it. Bella would understand, was in fact grinning at him like a slyboots. And fuck Thomassen, really. Arthur had to see him all the time at home.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, readers, and for your patience! I had a lot going on and this went longer than expected, but I hope it's okay. Comments all loved and welcome, good or bad!


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